


We are not who we used to be

by writing_escapism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_escapism/pseuds/writing_escapism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are passing time waiting for your coffee order at the local cafe when you see her. Hermione. You always thought seeing any of them again would be too painful. Your alliance was born of war time necessity and while you associated the word hero with her you also associated her with the worst period of your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Hermione

Faking levity had been draining. Ron had basked in the simplicity of peace time life. The war had granted him (alongside you and Harry) celebrity status effectively eviscerating his childhood fear of being unremarkable. Ron Weasley was content; at last bestowed with immovable self-confidence. His once volatile temper was muted by not constantly having to justify himself. Ironically you missed this trait.

You were insatiable. Dissecting every particle of the world around you. The fast pace of your Hogwarts life had masked your relentless obsession with achievement. Achievement not for recognition. Achievement simply to understand more. There had never been an off switch. You realized belatedly that you were meant to be admired from a distance. You were too confined with the routine of your relationship and all your efforts to change just accelerated your descent into depression. Only Harry and Ron knew the secret of the Brightest Witch of her generation; when concentrated, brightness burns like acid. You were handling burning yourself. You swore you could feel your heart dissolve when you realized it was scorching Ron too. The wizarding world was perplexed when the destined Gryffindor couple had parted. You and Ron had tried. It had been with nostalgic sadness for the promise you once had that you had split up. Similarly it had been with mutual relief.

You move into dorms. The breakup had occurred the summer before your sophomore year of University. Your course load had been normal (light for you) and you immediately triple it. Technically it’s not allowed but you strike a bargain with the dean to bend the rules if you finally agree to a Q&A series about your role in the past war. This is decidedly not what you want but you reluctantly agree as your salvation will be found in musty tomes and crowded lecture halls.

That year you barely leave the blessed trinity of library, class room, dorms. Your mind is constantly on fire. Seemingly determined to make up for the drollness of the last year. You have always been gifted but have never been as deeply immersed as you are now. The lines between subjects become fluid. You start to glimpse the underbelly of magic, analogous to the periodic table but you think it might be in a 3-D, rippled, spiral format. You know you are years and endless revisions away from clarity.

The three Q&A sessions are held in packed auditoriums and are mercifully mostly predictable affairs. The majority of the time is spent in an attempt to reconstruct the timeline of a lengthy muddled war. You answer some technical questions on warding spells and potions and generally deflect attention away from yourself as much as possible.

You are still close with Harry and Ron (you always will be family and fiercely protective of each other) and when you ask (beg) they agree to come for the third Q&A. Near the end three assistant professors endowed with more curiosity than intelligence challenge the three of you to duels. The only rule is no intentional attempts to maim. As a member of The Golden Trio you have lived nearly a decade in extreme proximity and you know all of each other's ticks. You can tell that none of you are scared. There is no threat of death and that year of bare subsistence searching for Horcruxes had stripped the three of you of any ego you may have had; you aren't afraid to lose. You can tell Harry's apparent nonchalance is forced, beneath messy hair he is carefully analyzing the environment. Ron is wearing the same vague expression he wears when he plays and invariably wins at wizard chess. You breathe in deeply curling into yourself and falling deep into your magic.

You draw lots for opponents. Ron goes first. It is clear from the first incantation that his opponent is woefully unprepared, his wand-work all flourishes and inefficiency. The assistant's overly complex spells ricochet uselessly off Ron's shields. Ron dispatches him with his first spell; unceremoniously disarming him. Ron bow to his opponent. The gathered students applaud him respectfully. Harry's opponent is stronger and immediately fires a quick succession of spells at Harry. You had forgotten how prodigiously quick Harry’s seeker reflexes were. He counters the first two spells, then dodges the others while simultaneously and accurately launching a body locking spell that punches through his adversaries shields like water. His opponent dropped and stayed down. It had taken less than a minute. The crowd give him a standing ovation as he blushes and mutters the counter course at his immobile opponent. You are preparing for your opponent who is noticeably green and looks like he is seriously regretting his decision after witnessing the preceding two duels. The dean interjects with a poorly veiled smirk asking you if he may offer you a more worthy opponent. He is from an old bloodline and you would bet he grew up dueling. This whole situation strikes you as premeditated. You acquiesce, there really isn't another option.

You had once been terrified by duels. Paralyzed by a cacophony of thoughts. The war had necessitated you overcome this. You had learned to remove the space between thought and action. You learned to fight reactively, instinctively. Strategy was thought and thought rendered you immobile. You watch as the dean bows and you mirror his actions. An image of rippled spirals flashes through your mind and like a touchstone it picks you up and flings you deeper into your magic to a depth you do not recognize. Across from you, you see the Dean’s wand moving in patterns you aren't familiar with. Curiously the spells hangs in the air as if he had illuminated them for you to read. You notice the runes for traps inlaid with others for protection. You cast your own defenses and again are surprised when they are visible to you. The spells shimmer like snippets of code and recognizing a pattern you instinctively combine them with your hands into a compound that feels stronger.

You looks over and you can tell he is waiting for you to attack (schemer he may be, but he was undeniably chivalrous). His spells read like mazes, littered with minefields. The only part unprotected is his feet so you ice the floor to throw him off balance. His smirk falters but he gamely keeps his footing with a sticky charm on his feet. You barely blink when a spell is hurtling towards you. You duck but it's unnecessary as his charm is absorbed into your shield which glows strongly before abating. This is new. You register his perplexed expression. Technically you don't have a spell to dismantle his wards, the spell you need has to navigate the minefield of his shield before stunning. If you had been thinking you wouldn't have attempted making a new spell on the spot. However, primal you needed a familiar spell with a twist. You imagine the elements of a simple stunning spell and add some runes that encompass the essence of maneuverability and directionality. You combine them in a crude double helix. It feels solid and familiar. You don't know what the wand movement should be, are clueless what the spell would sound like. But the spell feels startlingly tangible so you close your eyes and from within push it as hard as you can towards him. Technique is replaced by brute force. Your ears roar and you have black spots in your vision. The spell surges out explosively, propelling you backwards. You hope it worked because your magic feels wobbly and you doubt that you could even cast a basic lumos spell at the moment. You quickly rub your eyes and look up catching the wide incredulous eyes of the dean (now on his knees, pale with his nose bleeding), with his wand across his chest in the universal sign for yielding. You nod and bow.

You finally notice that you too are receiving a perplexed standing ovation. In a carbon copy of Harry you blush. You are grateful that the reputation of the Trio is full of strange stories, as people are confused by what just happened but are willing to add it to the list of unexplained mysteries. For distraction you wave your wand at the wards and barely contain a gasp as you watch the spells shimmer back into your wand. Your thoughts have returned; you know this is unprecedented. You tell Ron and Harry later this evening.

Your third year passes even quicker than the second. It appears the second year was a ramp up period and this year you are a juggernaut. Sometime in the preceding two years you became the introverted unofficial student leader. You always have people around you. You are kind to them. You never forget that you are acid. You keep everyone at a distance. When the loneliness gets too much you apparate to a different town for a weekend; rarely the same one twice and find respite in acting as someone simpler. You choose small towns where time moves languidly and strike up conversations on trivial things which you can feel are exceedingly important. It is in a small town on the coast of France you meet her again.

Chapter Two: Fleur

The last half decade had shattered though not broken you. The myriad of pieces by themselves were strong but they steadfastly refused to be melded back into any semblance of unity. Sitting on the beach your inner poet drinks in the brushstrokes of the summer sunrise as the scientist contemplates refraction. The child in you bubbles over longing for wave-pools; part of you thinks it would take an hour to swim out to the lifebuoy shimmering in the far distance. You are so fractured. Anger can consume you so completely that scared you cast a freezing charm on your body and lie in forced stillness waging internal war for hours. You have cried more times than you remember over small gestures of kindness. You sometimes, painfully yearn for strong arms to dissolve into for always. More often you want to roam coffee shops and clubs and have passionate one night stands that are everything and nothing. Your parents had named you flower in the French tongue. It used to suit you; graceful and grounded. You thinks now you are a Kaleidoscope. Pretty but unable to view the world coherently.

Your parents used to take you to this's town during your childhood summer vacations. It holds so many of your firsts; first time you swam, first time you read by yourself, first girl you kissed, first boy you slept with. You once thought you could live here in a house overlooking the ocean nestled amongst the dunes, settle down in a sleepy bliss, in a place where you would be known by all and know all. You weren't the girl who had wanted that anymore, but the woman you became still enjoyed visiting from time to time.

You are passing time waiting for your coffee order at the local cafe when you see her. Hermione. You always thought seeing any of them again would be too painful. Your alliance was born of war time necessity and while you associated the word hero with her you also associated her with the worst period of your life. You left England soon after Voldermort was vanquished and your fledging friendship died somewhere over the English Channel.

She is curled up in the corner reading a book, and despite the years that have passed she looks much younger than you recall. You are startled by her tranquility. Her face is relaxed and the small smile tugging on the corner of her mouth suggest she is finding the book entertaining. You had thought she was serious by nature and now you wonder if the girl with the furrowed brows you had met had just been permanently scared. You are suddenly unsure of yourself. You have fought beside her in duels and know she is a devastatingly powerful and primal woman when she fights. You have heard her throw up afterwards looking at the bodies. You have bathed blood off her and sutured cursed wounds. You know she learned wandless magic after waking up with recurring flashbacks of Bellatrix while she was defenseless. All your shared memories are horrific and startlingly personal and you wonder how to amalgamate them with the soft, peaceful and beautiful woman in the corner. You wonder if you should even try.

You are contemplating leaving without your coffee when she looks up. Her eyes are unfocused and for a moment you think she might not recognize you and you feel both intense relief and a smidgen of sorrow. But its Hermione Granger and you discover the first trait that links this coffee shop Hermione with hero Hermione is astounding mental alertness, so she does and she blinks and stares softly at you with her head inclined to the left. Long moments pass and you watch her almost tenderly scan and analyze you and you wonder if you have ever been as gently deconstructed in your life. Absentmindedly you wonder if she ever owned a Kaleidoscope. You find yourself waving gently which seems to snap her out of her reverie and she beckons you over with lithe fingers and a shy smile.

The barista calls your name and you turn around to pick up your coffee. You mentally try to steel yourself but find it completely impossible. You think briefly that you couldn't be much safer than in Hermione's presence. You register you aren't afraid but your thoughts are skidding and tumbling even more than usual, and any other feelings you have are lost in the chaos.

Chapter 3: Hermione

You were reading a transfiguration book that specialized in fluid forms. You have been planning on becoming an animgaus. You have wanted to for years but refuse to do a permanent spell on yourself until you fully understand it. The transformation usually fails, often maims and sometimes kills. They are very few who succeed. The foolish usually don't have the power to make the spell work and wise are usually unwilling to challenge their mortality. Physical magic has traditionally been your weakest area; you still cringe at the thought of broomsticks and healing magic has been the least instinctive of all the branches you have tried. You had to read advanced healing theory to make the spells beginners do without thought work. Interestingly the advanced spells were no harder for you. Your professor had said you were the first student that had scraped by level one classes and transformed into a prodigy at level 3. You think that all your magic is in your brain and none of it in your blood.

The literature on the animagus transformation is sparse and what few books have been written have little useful information imploring the caster to be “strong of heart” and “resolute of mind” i.e. stubborn, idiotic and frankly suicidal. Transfiguration is the most “scientific” of the fields of magic and you have an inkling that there may be some common links between free moving particle transformation and the animagus process. The works you have read so far haven't uncovered anything specific but you have caught glimpses that you think might add up to clarity in the end. You read a snippet that proclaims “the beginning, as you will observe is in your imagination” and you smile thinking that sometimes science is analogous to poetry.

You are buried deep inside of yourself, allowing your mind to process and reorganize itself around the new information. You look up distractedly and see her. Fleur. As you struggle back to the present, you think abstractedly that Fleur has always been incredibly beautiful. You long ago accepted this fact and so feel only a ghost of envy. Your mind focuses, drinking her back in, overlaying the woman from past years with the lady in front of you. She still radiates quiet power but her poise is less guarded. Ironically the part Veela had been the most human in the war. She was warmth and passion at a time when those qualities were scarce. You had gravitated towards her and sought respite in her company when you could. She had pulled you back from brink of your sanity and put you back together. You were too lost and too shattered to understand. Months later when you finally did, she had left. You thought your thanks weren't worth the painful reminder for a woman trying to start fresh.

But she’s here. She’s here in the same place as you. You abruptly realize you have needed to speak with her for years. You need to know she is ok. Want to tell her “I learned French because of you; the language always makes me feel safe”. Want to say that when you examine your seams it is her that has glued all your fault lines. You want to confess that you didn't understand grace under fire till you met her. You shyly beckon her over.

She tentatively collects her coffee and comes over. She weaves around the other patrons, long limbs and soft eyes. “Hermione” She almost whispers, her voice gentle as if one sharp inflection could shatter you. Maybe she is right; your eyes are threatening to water and your heart is determined to set a beats per minute record. You don't trust yourself to speak, instead resting your book on the table in front and placing her coffee beside it. You smile at her sincerely, while leaning in to embrace her. Initially she tenses but relaxes as your arms wrap around her waist. She smells like the ocean and second chances. She feels so achingly warm. You are making promises consciously and subconsciously with every second. I will not let us lose contact again. I will protect you like you did me. Her arms move to wrap snugly around your neck and you contentedly rest your head on her shoulder.

Chapter 4: Fleur

You had forgotten how slight she was, resting your chin on her head with ease. Her arms are wrapped around you gentle and securely; reverently. Her breath hits your collarbone in little puffs. You are so very grateful that she is giving the two of you time to adjust, saving you from small talk that belies your shared experience. English has always been frustratingly ungainly on your tongue, incapable of conveying the poetry of what you feel. Body language is universal you muse, always perfect. Consciously your arms wrap around her shoulders, one hand moving to thread through her hair. You wonder if she can feel your erratic heart beat against her chest, or hear it as it pounds. You think the only time you held her like this was at Shell cottage, after… You bite back a shudder, refocusing on the present, on the feel of her warmth in your arms. To band aid old demons you pull her tighter to your chest. Back then you had whispered in her ear, “I have got you, you are safe. You have been broken but you will mend. You are the bravest person I know.” Softly tucking a lock of hair behind her ear you lean in and whisper “I have got you, you are safe. You were broken but have mended beautifully. You are still the bravest person I know”. The words echo melodically between the past and present. She pulls back slightly and watery hazel eyes find yours. You don't even attempt to stall your own tears. Your stomach churns but you feel lighter, as if the words spoken have started an improbable reconciliation between the disparate parts of yourself. Her hands reach up and calloused thumbs delicately collect your tears. Your heart aches when she whispers back in French “You feel like safety. You saved my life. You are the warmest person I know”.

You aren't surprised she knows French. In the year you had spent at Hogwarts you had heard teachers sing her praises. Initially you weren't impressed by her precocity; erudition rarely translated to skill outside the classroom. You were curious though and twice you sat in the back of her classes under the ruse of improving your English. You had assumed she would know the textbook verbatim (she did), you had expected her to be the cleverest in her class (she was), and yet you were still woefully unprepared for the reality. You remember watching her in ancient runes as a professor explained the rudiments of Celtic Symbols. She listened with her whole body, her head and shoulders rapt and inclined towards Professor Babbling, her back poker straight. Then her head tilted left and her body seemed to shrink in on itself engrossed in her inner world. When the professor asked if anyone had any questions you expected a minor technical question maybe a query for further clarification of a point. Instead you got a fully formed hypothesis. She noted that many of the runes seemed to be combinations of simpler runes or alternations to them. She asked and obtained confirmation that most of the runes were geography specific as different tribes developed them in isolation. This was interesting and a good deduction and you were grudgingly impressed; you thought given enough time you could have deduced this yourself. She wasn't finished though. “So given that many of the magical forging techniques and spells were created by different tribes of our Celtic brethren, might it be possible to create a universal Celtic language based upon the simpler rules with logical alternation to get advanced words. Then we could substitute these runes into the spells written in the local dialects. It might then be possible combine the best of all the old forging spells to create a more comprehensive hybrid?” You were vaguely aware of your slack jaw. You knew you it was highly improbable that you would EVER put that together, certainly not at 15, definitely not in 10 minutes. So no you aren't surprised she had picked up French somewhere. You are however, incredibly grateful she has.

The moment is too heavy with emotion. You feel too much happiness, too much relief, too much nervousness. You are swamped and overwhelmed and her eyes are beautiful and touchingly concerned. You pull her close again, to feel her solidifying warmth and to gain a moment to rein in yourself. You close your eyes and concentrate on breathing, trusting her arms to anchor you. Somewhat calmer you open your eyes and take in your surroundings. You spot her fountain pen and the cover of the book that was making her smile 'Transmutation of fluid; conceptualizing transfiguration'. You smile which then escalates into a chuckle because it just SO her. She murmurs “what” into your neck, so you gently pull back and point in the books general direction. “Earlier you were smiling when you read and I should have known it was a result of something archaic and recondite”, you voice is teasing and affectionate and yet she still blushes and drops her head sheepishly. Again you are struck by just how young she is, how unaware she is of her importance. She looks up and replies with absolute sincerity “It's not archaic if it’s relevant and the author is STILL ahead of the time. He is broaching subatomic particles, though he isn't a muggle so he doesn't phrase it quite like that, but his descriptions make me feel like I am inside the actual spell as it transforms solid matter to liquid and it’s so intricate and …” She blinks and her sheepish smile returns “and I am running on, sorry, it happens sometimes”. You sit down on the sit opposite where she had been sitting. She follows your lead and sits down. You quirk an eyebrow at her and say with undisguised mirth “don't ever apologize for your charming bookworms tendencies, maybe just slow down a bit so us average folk can nod in the right places”. She scoffs “Part Veela, beauxbaton champion and rumor has it on trajectory to be head healer in a few years.” In response to your shocked face she adds “People talk and I have been to France a few times in the past few years, Fleur, you aren't exactly average”.

Chapter 5: Hermione

You hadn't seen her in years, you weren't even close friends. You aren't even sure if what you had constituted friendship. She had been your healer, confidant, and teammate and in retrospect your unconscious role model. This chance encounter should be uneasy, possibly awkward but instead it's like falling down the rabbit hole into wonderland. Since you first met her you have been fascinated but you only really knew her through other people; Harry’s competitor, Bill's fiancé, Ron's obsession. You observed her when you she was around but you lacked justifiable reason to insert yourself into her life more, well that and your Hogwarts days were a haze of seemingly insurmountable challenges that had you unceasingly occupied. Admittedly her perfect poise and pervasive male fan club didn't help her approachability. And like just about everyone you had an embarrassing (though small) crush on her. You had seen her at Weasley gatherings and she always took the time to talk to you, but those days had been few and far between and it wasn't until the last year of the war you had seen her more frequently. Grimmauld place wasn't conducive to deep friendships and well Shell cottage you were living in your own personal hell. So your strong reaction to her surprised you and you think you must have formed a bond unbeknownst to yourself.

She asks you about your studies and seems genuinely interested in your responses, she doesn't bat an eye at your four majors and multitude of minors. No it wasn't intentional I just took the classes I found interesting and all the credits started to add up. She fills you in about her job as a healer. Seeing you bite your lip and tilt your head to the left, she says go ahead ask all the questions you want. She had patiently explained them in detail and you are reminded that she is extremely clever. The conversation tangents to discussion of peculiar illnesses and you are beyond excited at the flow of ideas that bounce between the two of you. Two hour later when she suggests dinner, you don't even hesitate, you gather your things quickly and immediately pick up the conversation where you left off.

Dinner leads to a stroll through the town down to the pier. “How's Ron?” she asks stopping to lean against the safety railings. You immediately tell her about his career with Harry as aurors, his horrendous beard and how much you admire the man he is growing into. She nods purses her lips and then hesitantly speaks again. “He doesn't mind your crazy class schedule or frequent trips to the superior land of France?” she questions equal parts serious and teasing. You look away, it’s been years and your breakup had been written about extensively so you are haven't had to talk about this in a long time. “We broke up”, you say soft but resolute, “over two years ago”. Fleur nods her eyes searching and so very kind, you blame them for your ensuing over share “We weren't right for each other... I'm not really relationship material” You say it factually without self-pity, it's the truth. Your brain just doesn't shut off and requires constant stimulation. You think just maybe you could end up being the female version of Dumbledore; eccentric, brilliant but essentially alone. But she takes your small hand in hers and squeezes, silently asking you to continue and you find yourself rambling on emotionally.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She slipped inside you through the backdoor and demolished your meticulously constructed walls

Chapter 6: Fleur

“Insatiably analytical, which would be perfect if it was constraint within the realms of academia or work.” She speaks louder and you detect an edge of bitterness and self-hate in her voice, “It's like my head and heart belong to two different beings. Merlin, I loved him Fleur, wanted the promised happily ever after but…” Her shoulder sag and to you it seems that each jagged word that leaves her mouth is cutting her open. You ache to hold her but you doubt she will allow herself comfort and so you grip her hand a little tighter. “…but when I got it, all I could think of is what’s next? I have this really sharp mind but when it's not pursuing a goal or a topic it turns inwards and my head gets toxic and… I just couldn't, the tranquility was suffocating and I tried to relax into it but it felt like fighting myself. I had what I aiming for, but it wasn't enough. Love got beaten by resentment in the end, and it all got too much and verbally I knew all his weak spots and lashed out. He was so hurt and we broke up. I couldn't look myself in the mirror for days but Fleur...” Her voice cracks as she whispers the last part “I felt so much relief. I'm not even sure exactly what I am searching for in university, I just know I haven't felt this content before. The busier and the harder it gets the calmer I feel. I don't understand myself and I can't hurt someone like that again.” She finishes talking, she is heart wrenchingly defeated. Tears stream down her face, and she turns to face the sunset. Immediately you move behind her and wrap her in a tight embrace. You need to protect her, you have to show her that she is wrong about love. You haven't felt this invested in a person besides your sister Gabrielle. You are physically hurting for Hermione. You want to cry but know that you have to be the strong one now.

You have been silent, listening carefully to catch each word. You instinctively know that you are one of the few who she has opened up to about this. You feel a little honored that she has but mostly you feel compelled to take away her pain. How did your Hermione come to see herself like this? Your? You think she became a minuscule part yours at Shell Cottage when you held her every night. You realize just like then you would do anything to fix her.

“Ron's an ass”, you say.

She turns round to look at you confused, and it is clear whatever words she was expecting these weren't them. Your hand moves to delicately cup her cheek, your eyes are intense but your voice soft when you say “Hermione, the three of you accomplished so much while so young, more than most do in a lifetime. However, you were still so young and there were hundreds of countries and millions of unsolved mysteries waiting for you. You were allowed to want that. Ron's vision of the future wasn't what you wanted in the end and he was not wrong for loving peace as you are not wrong for loving chaos”, you punctuate this with a gently tug of her nose. “Ron's an ass for making you feel like his way was better ma Cherie. You have so much love to give Hermione but this,” you make a sweeping gesture to encompass the world around you, “this crazy world, with its hidden charms and unexplored mystery is your lifeblood, you can't be you without it.” She’s smiling, a watery smile, but still a smile and she’s looking at you as if you are an archangel who bestowed upon her hope. You want to make a joke about finding an adventurous bibliophile with great abs to date but the words die in your throat. “Thank you, Fleur”, and you know those are the only words you can both handle. You know they are also enough.

She clears her throat with a little laugh joking that she hasn't cried this much in years. You glance at your watch and it startles you how late it is. You have been talking to her non-stop for over seven hours and you feel there is still so much more you want to say and hear. “Where are you staying?” you find yourself asking and she gestures vaguely towards the town stating she will probably stay in the hotel near the coffee-shop. You just can't say goodnight yet, and tomorrow is too far away and so you risk being pushy asking if she would like to stay with you in your families vacation house down the beach and no its not trouble and yes there’s plenty of room. She accepts immediately and you can't help your grin that takes over your face. Taking her hand you walk her home as she traces out constellations in the night sky.

Chapter 7: Fleur

You lead her up the winding path and into your house. You could apparate but you had wanted to savor the quietness and the freshness from experiencing it with her. She silently takes in the living room and veranda, her eyes sweeping the room. Suddenly she sharpens and then chuckles. She whispers a spell you haven't heard before and you watch as her eyebrows raise in surprise “wow, so much protection, so much care. This house... it breathes for you”. She's right, the house is linked to your bloodline, has been for generations. The house transforms based on your and your family's mood, changing its lighting, furniture, temperature, and layout. “Tunnels, and towers. Confounding space. Devotion and creation.” She bows to the room and speaks to it as if it were alive saying formally, “Well met Delacours”. You feel the shift before you see it; your body keenly feels spells and magic. Pin and needles dance over your skin; excitement. Your bones creak and your muscles strain as if they haven't been used in a long time. You turn instinctively to the fireplace and watch as the stone work around it peels back and a white wooden door appears; the color and texture juxtaposing starkly. You knew the house had secrets, you had asked all your relatives and discovered many of them. You have never seen or heard of this this door. You take Hermiones hand in yours and almost drop it in shock. You see runes etched everywhere, in some places so abundant they are laid over each other and twisted together in beautiful patterns. Silver threads like pensieve anchor many of them and you realize your family has inwrought its very memories into the foundation. There are sparks of Veela magic glistening, trickling and reshaping itself. You turn to question Hermione but are blinded. She burns green and silver from within and tendrils of her magic are reaching out to the room. You drop her hand… and the light disappears.

You thought she was beyond surprising you. She must have realized what happened because she apologetically whispers another unknown spell and reclaims your hand. This time you see nothing and are both relieved and disappointed. Her thumb caresses your hand and she says “I can explain later, first we have been invited somewhere” and she tugs you gently towards the white door. Inside is an airy room, dominated on three walls by bookcases, the fourth by windows and a balcony that overlook the sea. Its dark out but you can hear the ocean. A four-poster bed protrudes out of one of the walls of books facing the ocean. You know without checking that you are on the top floor. You didn't have a plan when you invited her to stay with you, but it seems your ancestors did. In your bones you know this room is the center of the house, the haven and heaven of the original creators. The house is giving you, no, the house is giving you and Hermione its heart. You blush because while it is unexpected honor, you can't escape that this is a room for lovers.

Chapter 8: Hermione

It had become a habit when entering new places to search for spells. Partially for defensive purposes mostly for curiosity. The vast majority of spells in the magical world are benign, the same spells cast repeatedly for clean or silence. Occasionally you would run across a spell with a unique variation or a niche spell you had never encountered before. You had started this habit in Hogwarts, originally noticing only the most powerful and obvious of spells. Overtime you had tried hundreds of different illuminating spells to see before eventually creating your own, tinkering and magnifying them till you found the right combination. You could tell the Delacour home was old from the architecture, you suspected the house would be spell laden, and the reality had taken your breath away. Fleur was from a noble line, long known for their craft and for their tight family bonds. The spells of the house epitomized both and the memories weaved into the magic created a living history. You are entranced and extremely honored to be here. You magically reach out caressing and lightly leafing through them. You feel the equivalent of a magical poke; the house is gently trying to explore your magic. You came as a friend of Fleur's and you feel no malice in its touch. So you drop all your guards and let it search you, while you continue to examine intricate weavings for what you think might be the most exquisite space contortion charm. You chuckle when you feel the house tickle your magic core, and try not to close off when it ghosts over your memories. You bow to the room and greet it and you feel the foreign magic presence flow out of you again.

Minutes later you find yourself standing in a bibliophile’s paradise. Normally you would be perusing the books already. Your eyes sweep along the bookcases but you can't escape the subdued lighting and the four-poster bed. You hear the ocean softly kissing the shore. As you distractedly move towards the bookcases Fleur gracefully moves towards the balcony. You glance at her. Her hair glows silver in the moonlight, her figure chiseled; you think she is the living soulmate to Michelangelo's David. The daylight had granted you unbridled joy, the nighttime has ushered you into fantasy. Brave in the darkness you let your mind wander down forgotten paths; her body pressed into you, how her lips would feel caressing yours.

She turns to you and you are caught staring. You remember that you are inhabiting the same space but not the same world. In her world you are the girl she pulled out the darkness, the wallflower who watched as she blossomed. Intellectually you tower but emotionally you are so brittle and under her gaze you threaten to shatter along your many faults. With her caring eyes and soft touches you had given her more than you could afford and you don't know how to ask for it back. Hermione Granger is not given to self-sympathy, not known for caving into emotional wreckage. Besides this time yesterday you hadn't seen her in years, what does 24 hours really change? Everything your heart whispers. Everything your brain concurs. For once the two antagonists agree.

She slipped inside you through the backdoor and demolished your meticulously constructed walls. With her you don't feel like you need them. Fleur with the visage of an angel, who had redeemed you once, you trust implicitly. She say's your name and you walk to her unhesitant. Happiness you believe is granted in proportion to strength. Your heart beats painfully against your ribs, and your limbs tremble but your mind is shouting you are strong enough.

Chapter 9: Fleur

You turned to see her watching you with a smile filled with open adoration. Your heart fluttered in your chest and you think again that this is a room for lovers. You watch as the softness fades out to be replaced with a watchful tight expression. She's smiling the strained smile from years ago. Battling for happiness. You think her head isn't a restful place to occupy, merlin know yours usually isn't. She's given you respite from running, a reminder that there were parts of your past worth holding onto. Placing a foundation under the castles you have been building in the sky. You think that just maybe you can heal each other. Now just as then you open your arms to her and now just as then she walks into them grasping you like you are the last lifeboat in stormy waters.

You shuffle backwards onto the cushions of the lounger. You lie down and guide her until she is sitting between your legs with her back against your chest. You hold her tight against you and feel her thumping heartbeats. You listen as her breathing evens and her heart rate slows; she sinks further into you and you delight in tugging her ever closer, and her hand come up to hold onto yours. Peace may never be yours but you think you could be serene if she would just stay with you. You are storing memories; her vanilla and vellum scent, her silky tussled hair, her slight delicate hands. She shivers as a cool breeze blows in off the ocean. You rub her arms then reach for the blanket that experience has told you will now have appeared. You turn her in your arms and cradle her in the warm wool throw.

“Better?” you ask gently and she does this nose scrunching smile accompanied by a head nod that exudes joyous innocence. “How do you do that?” you question. “How do you become so gentle that I want to bundle you in bubble-wrap even though you don't need it and protect you from this world?” She ducks her head shyly, “I just feel safe with you, today, tonight”, and she shrugs, “I guess... I guess I know you know me.” You make her safe. You replay those words over and over in your mind and you think you feel your heart tendons stretch and strain to accommodate all the love bubbling inside you. You nuzzle into her for long moments, breathing against her neck. She places light fingers under your chin and raises your head searching your eyes and you can feel the air growing heavier, “I owe you a thank you that is years overdue.” You raise an inquisitive eyebrow, but she has obviously been building up to this, and you shouldn't interrupt so you bite your lip and swallow any dissenting reply. “I was too shell-shocked, brimming with self-disgust and everybody was treating me tentatively like I was about to break. I was. I was running out of sanity. I kept having to list the reason I should stay, sometimes all I could do was recite them over and over, till I fell asleep.” You know she means suicide and you know she isn't exaggerating and Fuck you obviously knew that time was TERRIBLE for her. It shouldn't surprise you but hearing her say the words is gut wrenching and you have to bite back the bile in your throat at the idea. You abhor violence but mentally have thanked Molly repeatedly for ending Bellatrix life. You only wish you could have done it yourself. You are both wrecks at this point, all tear streaked faces and trembling limbs but it's important that she finishes speaking and so you bite your sore lip again and clasp your hands with white knuckles. “And you" she reaches up and cups your check caressing it with her thumb, and the softness contrasts so sharply against what happened to her that you wonder again how she can love so gently, so openly. "You just gathered me into you room, said awful things happened to me but i was not awful, told me fall apart inside these walls, you will keep me safe. You did and I was. You cried with me, kissed love into the bruises and the scars and breathed a quite love back into my world. From then on you were always there when I needed you, and it was SO Unquestioning that it wasn't till you left that I understood how selfless that was. How much I was indebted to you. But how do you say thank you to someone for a past they are trying to forget? So I let it go. But you are HERE now and I didn't know how much I MISSED you till today. So thank you for putting me back together. You. You saved my life, Fleur”. She punctuates her confession with a lingering delicate kiss on your cheek.

You Feel SO MUCH for her. It would have been impossible not to have helped her, you had been startled that she had let you. At the time you had only wanted to rescue the most gifted person you had ever met. Then you discovered how emotive, how passionate she could be and you had tried more than ever to restore her to that…And your skin pulses where she kissed you and idly you are rubbing that area. Closer. You have to be closer. You lean into her and brush your lips tenderly against both her cheeks.

Chapter 10: Hermione

Her lips graze your cheeks, and like a spark to a tinder it sets you alit. You are compelled. You lean into her slowly with deliberate eye contact, pausing just short of her lips, because although you might combust if you don't kiss her you believe unequivocally in consent. You are spared incineration; when plump sensual lips press against yours. Your eyes flutter closed and you kiss with astonishing slowness, coaxing the connection as if both of you agreed to protect it lest it flickers out too easily. You aren't a physical person…you weren't a physical person. Your body is humming, vibrating frantically from the slightest of pressure on your lips. Perhaps in this bubble of you and her physics is inverse. The kiss tastes reverent and like hopeful desperation; please, fuck please, let her be enjoying this because having Fleur this way feels as life altering as the first time you cast a spell. It takes the limitations of the world you once knew and with one kiss is telling you they were just illusions. You think magic has many forms. Bravely you pull back but leave your hand on her neck, you can't bear to be fully part. Your heart is trampolining off your ribs. You are acutely aware that her reaction is a pivot point in your life. She has your heart in her pickpocket fingers; you never felt her take it.

Your eyes search each other. Any semblance of fear or regret will not do. You find nothing, only well intentioned concern and a bashfulness that you would have sworn before tonight she couldn't exhibit. The corners of her mouth lift into a smile and you feel yourself break out into an ear splitting grin. Her eyes dance with mirth and she threads her fingers in your hair and pulls you back in. It's a playful and passionate kiss, burning with desire and bubbling with relief. Her tongue is exploring your mouth, her hands on your hips insistently pushing you backwards till she can lie on top of you. She moves to kiss you along your jawline, then nips, sucks and kisses down your neck and you are embarrassed when you gasp and writhe underneath her. Its Ecstasy you think and wonder if that makes everything before this a purgatory to earn her heavenly embrace.

And you know tomorrow you will have questions, the sun will rise and bring with it complications and considerations. Today, however, is unfathomable and she is beautiful and her kisses steal gravity from your bones till you are floating, Anchored solely by her touch. You only get one first night; so when she says aloud “this is a room for lovers” you take her hand and lead her to the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to proceed when reality exceeds dreams? You are out of your depth, but depth is a measure of past experience and you are nothing if not determined. Steeling yourself you start to unbutton your white oxford shirt with trembling fingers.

Chapter 11: Fleur

“Show me” you whisper as she takes your hand and without missing a beat she repeats that spell and you still can't recognize it. “What is the word?” you question. She says it's Elfish for “reveal” a language from The Lord of the Rings, a muggle book, all her spells are in that tongue. “I know no one else has used the words before in a spell and… well the language is just really pretty.” You scour your brain for Elf's, you vaguely recall them from a passing comment in Muggle studies. She is so much more adept than her peers that it is easy to forget that this is her second world. You think Elfish is an apt tribute to the nerdy muggle girl she once was. You would have more questions but the room is filling with color.

  
You are mesmerized by the swirls and patterns weaving throughout the room. Some pulse strongly barely moving while others flit from point to point. You watch flecks of gold blend into silver lace then pull energetically apart. You don't understand the majority of the patterns but the body language of the spells looks giddy and expectant. “It feels exuberant, but what do they say?” you ask turning to Hermione for explanation. You blink and lift your free hand to shade your eyes. She's so bright. Earlier you thought she had glowed but now she radiates. Her entire body is shades of spring green interwoven with silver threads. When you glance back at her, she is studying you, happy and intrigued. When you look down you notice you are filled with red and blue Hues. “Fire and Ice”, she says breathlessly “I haven't seen it so distinct before”, her thumb caresses your joined hands. “Your magic is as beautiful and fascinating as you”, you duck your head equal parts delighted and unnerved that she knows so much about you. “As for the room… I would need months to deconstruct the intricacies... (and she is smiling in a way that tells you she would love to), but from what I can tell the spells are anchored in love.” You look closely at her again and notice bits of her magic joined up all over the room. “The silver are the memories of the inhabitants over the years. Memories of their families, memories of falling in love, memories of heartbreak… this room has been dormant for decades…waiting for something, waiting for someone. I thought at first it just wanted to exercise its magic or for someone to interlay more spells but that's just a part of it. The room is hopeful... Fleur, I know you feel it... The entire house is hopeful. It belongs to you, and it wants you to be happy…”

  
She trails off embarrassed and self-conscious. Your mind is racing along the pathways of what she just said. You quickly reach the end of the path and it's like you are looking out over a cliff. You know the road back to safety is behind you. You don't hesitate when you move forward and jump over. All you need to know is that she is below. Your actions mirror your thoughts when you ask her to turn off the spell, “Let it just be us tonight”, you say “you make ME hopeful, you make ME happy”. She looks endearingly surprised and tentatively happy, like she understood what you said but hasn't accepted it yet. You realize you need to show her, words were never your forte. She undoes her spell and you walk towards the bed taking deep breaths to lend bravery to your bones. You face her and with shaking hands you unzip your dress.

  
Most days you know you are considered extremely attractive, as a part Veela you were endowed with grace, sensuality and yes you can ooze sex appeal. You like company between the sheets and have had a string of one night’s stands. You read people well and know how to mask your emotions. You never want to sleep with the same person and you have always gone to their place leaving before the sunrise. You constantly have the upper hand in sexual encounters, emotionally and magically. Tonight’s different, not only because magically you know she is superior. You want Hermione to break you down, you want her to take control of you, and you want to give yourself to her. You want to wake up next to her. You want to take her for yourself. You want to make love to her.

Chapter 12: Hermione

You hear the distinctive sound of a zipper being pulled down. You watch as her blue patterned summer dress is removed from her body. Gaze as porcelain shoulders are revealed, swallow (gulp) when you see navy laced lingerie and shiver when you view long toned legs. She is flawless and the epitome of feminine beauty. You are certain you have never been privileged to beauty of this caliber before. You never dreamed you would be. How to proceed when reality exceeds dreams? You are out of your depth, but depth is a measure of past experience and you are nothing if not determined. Steeling yourself you start to unbutton your white oxford shirt with trembling fingers.

  
As if your top button was a call to arms she moves towards you. She removes your fingers and replaces them with her own. Moving assuredly she swiftly undresses you. She doesn't rest until you are both naked. She pauses then, leans her lean body against yours, and reassures you with her warmth and whispers in your ear “Let me love you”. And her eyes are searching yours again. Eyes that have forgotten what shutters are, eyes that echo your hope, eyes that ask to let her in, eyes that beg to let this happen. Your affirmative nod is barely perceptible. And this is not enough for her, she wants you here in this thing together, she pleads “Hermione, please…please let me just show you that I'm here... that you are special… that we could be special”. You wonder why she is asking, from the moment you laid eyes on her this morning (seemingly years ago) you would do anything to make her happy. Instead of verbally replying you push her gently till she is sitting on the bed and you can stand between her legs. You kiss her with a passion ignited by her intelligence, fed by her beauty and fueled by her tenderness. Any bastion of self-control you had is officially destroyed when she moans into your mouth. The sounds has pulled you out of your mind and plunged you into your instincts, it feels like reverse dueling; powerful but with the underlying desire to create and to bind. You grin because you just found the key to Animagus spell, you float because she mixes magic with love. You pour this delight into your touches, you have never felt this sure of your own body.  
You pull her tighter against you, grind upwards and kiss her forcefully. If you are honest you have been wet since she held you at the pier but the last few hours have escalated that too sopping. You reach down between your legs and find both your thighs coated with arousal. Proof incarnate that Fleur is the sexiest person you have ever seen. “So wet” you growl and while it’s not the most elegant of sentences, you are certain it conveyed your almost frantic need to be touched. She bites down on your lip and tugs your hand from between your legs to hers. She's dripping, and deliciously warm. You are incredibly proud to be the cause of the former and ignited by the latter. You barely manage to ask for permission before she is pressing your hand inside her and riding your fingers. With your free hand you guide her back against the pillows and lie between her legs.

Chapter 13: Fleur

First you thought she was an enigma; quiet and demure until a flash of brilliance would escape and reluctantly she would be pulled into the spotlight. Later as the brilliance and tears became more frequent you considered her a paradox of strength and fragility and wondered how that coexisted. Now that you have glimpsed her thoughts, seen her magic and felt her body against you, you think she was an artist all along. An artist hidden behind a scientist and mistaken for a hero. There were many clues but you were distracted by her, Ron and Harry's epic deeds that you missed who she was when no one was watching.  
A school girl willing to redefine Celtic spells to forge something more intricate. A witch who used Elfish abstract language because the “words were pretty" and crafted exquisite spells then chose not to flaunt or sell them. A woman who could coast through the rest of her life on her celebrity status but instead pours her energy into healing magic and equal rights welfare legislation. A lover with the capacity to create moments. With porcelain kisses she had worshipped you, fingers laced with devotion she touched you and when she pushed her fingers deep inside you felt new. You were not a virgin, you had no firsts left to give her. You realized she was an artist when she created an original for the two of you to share. She played your body like a master cellist, eliciting moans with feather light touches, adding pressure to strike deeper vibrations, silencing some notes with consuming kisses. She gave you a melody unknowingly you had been waiting years to harmonize to. Your body bucked against hers, you wreathed and clutched, the nail marks on her back were your assurances of devotion. When you came it was with tears of joy and laughter because she had uncovered a better you and taken it for herself.

  
She held you when you rode out the aftermath. Stroked your hair and kissed you back down to this earth. You knew when you cuddled panting into her side that you were hers. That you would trace her path through this life and follow her wherever she would let you. Veela were not naturally submissive and when you finally catch your breath your blood screams at you to take her for your own.

  
Without preamble you move on top of her. Pinning her wispy frame with your taller more athletic stature. The love in your movements is coupled with force. Her chest is rising and falling with adrenaline? Arousal? You kiss her thoroughly, dominantly. You want to erase the memory of all lovers before you. She lets you, yielding to your passion. You move down her body, sucking a pert nipple into your mouth. Her back arches off the bed and a string of indecipherable moans cascades from her mouth. You had meant to be slow and teasing but she has driven away your resilience. You enter her as she arches. She is the wettest person you have ever felt. You are moved to claim her as your own and to protect her. Using your stronger frame you cradle her into your lap and fuck her thoroughly with your fingers. She comes in a breathtaking spasm and then whimpers into your side in ecstasy afterwards. You hold her fervently to your chest. Feel her heartbeat against your own. Being with her and taking her has defied your expectations. You feel you have never been this full. Never this satisfied and invigorated. You level of love for her thrills and terrifies you.

Chapter 14: Hermione

The shimmering glow of morning light rouses you. Your body is slow to wake but your mind is relentlessly tearing down avenues of thought, ideas shouting to be heard over the din of others. Sighing with a touch of frustration you resign yourself to leaving Fleur's embrace; you are too restless. Stealthily you extricate yourself from her protective arms. You look around for your clothes from yesterday and instead find warms blue and grey beauxbaton sweats that you can't remember seeing yesterday. You think they are ideal for the morning chill and slip into them. You are surprised they fit you perfectly. You muse that it is strange they fit YOU and not FLEUR. Then you understand; the house conjured them for you. It dawns on you that this morning the house has identified you as one of its own. The symbolism isn't lost on you, in the eyes of her ancestors you are hers. So you aren't confused. You are however, touched and extremely scared. Scared that this morning she will regret last night, scared how much that possibility hurts to contemplate, scared how easily you gave your heart. So you do what you do best when confronted with heavy emotion, you focus on something else, then reproach it later from a sideways angle when you are calmer. Right now your mind has the perfect distraction, animagus.

  
A moment of crystalline clarity last night; reverse dueling. The thought symbolized how you could bridge your difficulty with physical magic; no thought. You had originally dismissed this concept because thought had equated to intelligence and you weren't willing to try this spell dumb. Last night you had felt her magic, saw intelligence focused without premeditation. This wasn't new. Her ability to create not solely react was. Dueling is instinctive and reactive; and destructive. But why not constructive? You drop to a cross legged meditation posture and concentrate on your breathing. The room fades away as your focus narrows to the sphere of your body, you drop into the double helix of your magic you have spent months trying to map. You immerse and mix so deeply into the magic that you become pure potential and possibility. You feel free, completely unencumbered and yearning to explore. Your magic you realize reflects who you are (or maybe you reflect it?) and it wants to stretch, wants to try a new combination. Unhesitant you whisper the animagus spell. There is a moment of pause in your magic and then a rolodex of images of animals flits through your mind; you pause over some, discard them and then hurry forward again. You stop at an image of a seagull, and smile remembering your favorite muggle book Johnathan Livingstone. Your body flows into feathers.


End file.
